


At The Last Moment

by RobinLorin



Series: Boyfriend From Gascony [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coffee Shops, Developing Relationship, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pre-Relationship, Sappy, Translation Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-26 14:29:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1691636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLorin/pseuds/RobinLorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of how Athos and d'Artagnan met in the Boyfriend From Gascony AU. Warnings for coffeeshop AU, hopelessly sappy descriptions of smiles and sunlight, and murder. </p><p>D’Artagnan smiled dreamily at them. “I’m going to bang that man so hard.” </p><p>“It’s a modern-day fairytale,” said Émile dryly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Didn't Know I Was Lonely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The wonderful[Krezh12](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Krezh12) has translated this fic into Russian! Read it [here](http://ficbook.net/readfic/2154479).**

“The chance which now seems lost may present itself at the last moment.”   


― Jules Verne, _Around the World in Eighty Days_

Every year, there was a summer conference in Gascony for law enforcement. One week of meetings and lectures about due procedure and things Athos knew by heart. Every year, Captain Treville reminded Athos that attendance would help with the departmental approval of the Musketeers Agency as an official police resource.

And every year, Porthos and Aramis made sure they were busy that week. This year was no different.

“I’m helping Flea with the shelter,” said Porthos. He, at least, could lie with a straight face.

Aramis was never as good. “I’m afraid I’m on vacation that week. Booked it months ago, you know. There’s a little cottage in north Champagne with a pretty lady inside just waiting for me. You know how it is.” He eyed Athos dubiously. “Or maybe you don’t.”

Just like every year, Athos accepted his lot.

The conference wasn’t all bad; there were some good points and it was always best to be updated on the current rules so their company wouldn’t cross any lines. Not unintentionally, anyway.

Mostly it was the socializing that got to him. All those people rubbing elbows and trying to make connections and create networks and all those keywords the social media sites used nowadays.

Well, Athos wasn’t having any of that. If Porthos and Aramis had wanted him to promote their agency, they shouldn’t have sent Athos.

He fell into his usual pattern of social avoidance easily. He kept his opinions to himself, broke off short conversations by refilling at the open bar, and soon enough he wasn’t even missed when he slipped out to “find the restroom” and didn’t return for the rest of the evening.

The only upside to the entire week was the café down the street. It was an institution; one of those places that had been owned by one family for generations. Athos always went there in the mornings before the presentations; their coffee was the best for jump-starting his brain cells.

And this year they had -- especially good coffee. Very good coffee. Served by -- by exceptional baristas. One barista in particular. He was very. Good. Very good at coffee.

Very good at smiling so his nose crinkled, and lingering by Athos’ table when he brought him coffee, and tucking his hair behind his ear in an endearing habit, and --

Coffee.

Yes. 

* * * * *  

The café was always the same. D’Artagnan had been working there, in the center of his sleepy town, since he was sixteen. He was used to the same slow country pace, the same customers, the same specials, and the same coworkers who were also paying their way through school.

Even the one excitement in summer, the annual law enforcement conference, was old hat by this point. Cops would straggle in with glazed eyes, cotton-brained from long hours in conference rooms staring at PowerPoints.

This year was different.

It wasn't just that it was his first summer after graduating. It was also the policeman who came in every morning before anyone else.

He was dressed in plainclothes, like all the others, but he held himself like a cop. His eyes cleared the room and checked the exits before they settled on d’Artagnan.

Hand to god, d'Artagnan's heart skipped a beat.

“Coffee, black,” the man said to d’Artagnan. Cordial, but curt.

“Certainly, monsieur.” D’Artagnan flashed his best grin and took the proffered cash. It was gratifying to see the man’s practiced room-check pause as he did a double-take at d’Artagnan’s smile. Just for a second, but it was enough.

D’Artagnan’s eyes followed the man to the corner seat by the window. His eyes were stuck on one part of his anatomy in particular. Who knew cops could wear leather pants so well?

“Someone’s got a new crush,” Émile murmured to d’Artagnan, hip-checking him playfully as they passed by the coffee station.

D’Artagnan smiled dreamily at them. “I’m going to bang that man so hard.”

“It’s a modern-day fairytale,” said Émile dryly.

D’Artagnan brought the coffee to the window seat the man had chosen. “One black coffee, strong enough to drown PowerPoints.”

The man looked quietly interested. He looked like the kind of man who was quiet about lots of things. “You’re familiar with the conference.”

“It’s our busiest week.” 

“I haven’t seen you here before.” The man furrowed his brow. D’Artagnan decided he really must not realize how much that sounded like a line. He resisted the urge to ravish him on the spot.

“Usually I work in the afternoons,” he said. “Although I’d consider switching to mornings permanently, if this is the sort of clientele I can expect.”

The man paused and seemed to take d’Artagnan in again. D’Artagnan was about to follow up, or perhaps perform some kind of damage control, when the bell above the door rang and a crowd of chattering professionals poured into the café.

D’Artagnan smiled at the man. “Duty calls,” he said.

By the time he had time to breathe and look around, the man was long gone.

* * * * *

D’Artagnan gave tall, dark, and handsome a few idle thoughts, mostly on the topic of whether he’d read him wrong after all. But the next morning, the man was back again, ordering another cup of black coffee. He met d’Artagnan’s eyes and brushed d’Artagnan’s hand as he handed over his money. Better yet, he half-smiled when d’Artagnan set down his coffee. Oh, d’Artagnan had read him right.

“You know, you’re already my favorite customer,” he confessed.

The man looked up. “Oh?”

D’Artagnan smiled. “Of course. Yours is the simplest order. I don’t have to remember a decaf quad soy with a half-pump of pumpkin.”

The man looked down at his coffee, but not fast enough to hide a smirk. “Of course.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me why else you’re my favorite?” d’Artagnan teased.

The man glanced up through his fringe. “Should I?”

“Well, how many other policemen read Jules Verne?” D’Artagnan nodded at the worn, dog-eared book by the man’s elbow. “I can tell you’re a man of good taste.”

“I do frequent your café, don’t I?” The man toasted d’Artagnan with his coffee cup.

Even Émile’s shout for d’Artagnan’s help couldn’t quell the grin on his face. Mystery man was gone by the next time d’Artagnan looked up, but that was alright. He was already looking forward to the next morning.

* * * * *

The weather conspired against him the next day. Rain was coming down in buckets when d’Artagnan’s Papa woke him before dawn. D’Artagnan went to the field to help with the hay, ushering Papa back inside when he tried to help.

“Stay here,” he said, loudly by necessity. The rain thundered on the roof. D’Artagnan was soaked just standing in the doorway.

Papa would call in for d’Artagnan. Émile would understand the needs of the farm. D’Artagnan spared a pang for the loss of his conversation with the mystery man. Still, the farm came first. It was something he had always understood, as had his father and his mother before him.

The day after next was the last of the conference. D’Artagnan resolved to make his move by then. Something about mystery man made d’Artagnan want to cherish him, to take his time wooing him. He wasn’t the sort for a quickie behind the café. But d’Artagnan could at least get a name to pine over for when the man left town.

D’Artagnan took a deep breath and ducked his head against the rain.

Tomorrow.

* * * * * 

The rain only lasted an hour. Much of the hay was a loss, but together with the field hands d’Artagnan had managed to rescue a good amount. D’Artagnan had dried off and collapsed onto the couch, grateful that he didn’t have to go to his shift. A long nap had occupied the rest of his day, and now d’Artagnan lounged on the couch with an old copy of a Jules Verne novel. 

D’Artagnan glanced at the clock. Papa had gone out to check on the horses nearly an hour ago. D’Artagnan sighed and got up to stretch. He might as well go out and check on Papa in turn.

Papa had probably gotten distracted by their new filly. He had agreed to hire extra hands to help care for their horses last year, when the last of d’Artagnan’s sisters had moved away and Papa’s arthritis had gotten worse; still, he loved to curry the horses himself.

The stables were five minutes’ walk from the house. D’Artagnan strode into the night, leaving the soft lights of the house and heading for the brighter lights of the stables.

As he approached he could hear the horses making upset noises. “Papa?” he called softly. There was no answer from inside. Worry jumped in d’Artagnan’s veins. Had Papa’s arthritis acted up -- had he fallen from a ladder?

“Papa?” he called again.

Before he could enter the stable, a sharp cry came from the darkness beyond.

D’Artagnan instantly broke into a run. “Papa?” he shouted.

The horses shrieked behind him. A person was shouting, up ahead in the darkness -- and there was another voice, Papa’s, rasping and low. The circle of light was behind him, and D’Artagnan was running into a curtain of darkness. He knew where Papa was: at the edge of their property, where the hay field met the road.

He widened his eyes, straining them, and was rewarding with the sight of a grey figure dashing away, down the road.

D’Artagnan would have followed him, but for the second figure he saw almost too late. His father on the ground, a dark shape in the long grass.

D’Artagnan dropped to his knees beside him. “Papa,” he said breathlessly. “Who was it? Are you alright?”

As soon as he asked the question he felt the warm blood on his father’s side. He heard the rasping breaths of a dying man.

“Charles,” Papa rasped. He clasped d’Artagnan’s hand in both of his own.

“Papa,” d’Artagnan said helplessly. The blood was covering his hands, covering his thighs, soaking into his sweatpants. The hay was itching his ankles. A mosquito buzzed in his ear. Papa’s hands were loosening on his.

Papa’s breath stopped.

There must have been time after that. There must have been a moment when d’Artagnan extracted his hand from Papa’s stiffening limbs. There must have been long minutes when he trekked back through the long grass to the house. There must have been a call to the police, and there must have been instructions and recounting. There must have been another walk through the grass, to where Papa’s body was bathed in the static-grey light of pre-dawn.

All this must have happened, for d’Artagnan found himself kneeling beside Papa’s body again, but with his cell phone clutched in his hands and a policewoman helping him stand up, leading him away from the crime scene.

There must have been questions, too, because d’Artagnan was answering each one. There was a blanket draped around him and he fingered the edges, feeling the coarse stitches.

He couldn’t stop his eyes from flickering all around, from Papa and away; to Papa and away; to the policewoman; to the grass; to the body, Papa; to the ambulance; to the body; to the card in the grass.

The world sharpened. D’Artagnan felt himself snap back into his body, so quick it hurt his teeth.

“And you’re sure you didn’t see who it was?” the policewoman asked.

“No,” said d’Artagnan. “I didn’t see.” He tore his eyes away from the card in the grass.

The policewoman nodded and clasped him on the shoulder. “Alright. I’ll have a man walk you back home -- “

“No,” said d’Artagnan quickly. “No, thank you,” he amended. “It’s a short walk. I’ll call my sister to come over.”

The policewoman nodded; everyone in town knew Marion. “As long as you’re sure.”

“Yes, thank you.”

D’Artagnan walked slowly through the fields. He resisted the urge to look back.

He went to the house and washed the blood from his hands. He stripped and stepped into the shower, scrubbing his thighs and forearms where the blood had dried. The sweatpants went into the trash.

He went to the stable and calmed the horses.

He walked back through the field, back to the -- the crime scene.

_If it’s still there_ , he thought, _it’s fate_. _If the police haven’t bagged it, I was meant to see it._

The card was still lying in the grass, just on the edge of the road. Only a few yards from the brown stains on the ground where Papa’s body had lain.

D’Artagnan picked it up. Laminated and glossy, it had survived the dew that clung to the grass. He flipped it over.

_Athos_

_Police Consultant -_

_Musketeers Agency_

_Paris_

* * * * * 

Someone was pounding on Athos’ door. He groaned and pushed his face into the bedspread.

It was probably the shrill-voiced event coordinator, demanding why Athos hadn’t attended the seminar on bereavement training. Maybe if he ignored them they’d go away.

They didn’t.

Athos groaned and swung his feet off the bed. The TV was playing an infomercial on mute. Athos fumbled for the remote and clicked it off. He staggered to the door and opened it, and was suddenly very aware of his rumpled clothes and unwashed face.

“You!” said the barista from the cafe. “You’re Athos?”

Something was off. Athos tensed. “Yes,” he said.

Without further warning, the barista swung a fist at him. Athos staggered and, on instinct, swung back. The barista dodged and swung again. Athos backed into his room and the barista followed him, pressing his advantage.

Athos fumbled for a latch in the wall. The collapsible ironing board sprung out. It missed the barista, but the surprise threw him off. Athos pinned the man to the wall, one arm to his throat. “What are you doing?”

This close, he could see flecks of gold in the barista’s brown eyes. He could feel his breath, panted from between parted lips.

“You killed my father,” the barista hissed.

Athos took in the man’s features and took a quick guess. It could be possible -- Bonnaire hailed from the countryside.

“Bonnaire was a criminal,” he said. “I was doing my duty.” He pressed the other man more firmly against the wall, as a warning.

The barista struggled against Athos’ hold. “Bonnaire? I am talking about Alexandre d’Artagnan, whom you murdered last night in cold blood!”

Athos’ blood turned to ice in his veins.

Was this the point where he lost himself to the bottle? Had he blacked out last night? Where had he been --

It returned to him in a flash. Going out for a smoke and answering Aramis’ call; returning to his hotel room and overpaying for a shitty movie; falling asleep on top of one of the narrow hotel beds as dawn broke. Drinking the whole time, of course, but that was a given.

He remembered it all, thank god.

“I’ve never heard of Alexandre d’Artagnan, and I certainly did not kill him,” he said. He pressed his arm more firmly across the barista’s, d’Artagnan’s, throat. “If I let you up, will you be civil?”

There was hesitation in those eyes. “Prove it.”

Athos raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think you’re in the position to make demands.”

D’Artagnan gave a full-body twist and Athos found himself on the ground, a knee pressed into his sternum.

“How about now?” said d’Artagnan. He thrust a small card before Athos’ eyes. “I found this by my father’s body.”

It was Athos’ business card. Another memory passed behind his eyes: fumbling in his pocket for his vibrating phone and juggling his lighter in his other hand. Taking a drag as he answered the phone. Staring across a damp field at a small house, its windows lit a soft gold.

“Dumas,” he said. He looked for confirmation and saw it in the jerk of surprise. “The name on the sign. Your farm?”

“It was my grandmother’s,” d’Artagnan murmured. His gaze sharpened. “You were there?”

“For a smoke,” said Athos. He spoke slowly, not moving. He could recognize the grief in d’Artagnan’s eyes now. He knew that kind of impotent anger, and knew it well. “My associate called me when I was standing by an old oak tree by the edge of a field. The card must have fallen from my pocket.”

He watched d’Artagnan’s face drain of rage. The bare helplessness it left behind was heartrending as it was familiar.

“I’m sorry about your father,” he said. “I did not kill him.”

D’Artagnan removed his knee from Athos’ chest. Athos sat up. D’Artagnan stood slowly, looking at Athos with desperate eyes. “I’d like to take your word, but I need proof.” His fist was crushing Athos’ card.

“The hotel’s security tapes will validate me.” Athos made as if to turn away.

D’Artagnan’s eyes narrowed. “Not without you.”

That was how Athos found himself, at four-thirty in the morning, in last night’s rumpled clothes, hailing an attendant in the lobby. And he hadn’t even had any coffee yet.

“My valise is missing,” said Athos to the attendant. “It may have been taken by one of my friends as a prank. However, if it were taken by… someone else…”

The attendant took the hint and paled. “I can assure you, sir, none of our staff would do such a thing!”

“I’m sure,” said Athos smoothly. “However, I would like to check the security tapes, to be sure.”

Guests on Athos’ floor meandered jerkily down the hallway in fast-forward. Athos’ door remained closed until a tall young man approached it rapidly, timestamp 0407. Athos clicked the pause button and turned to the attendant hovering anxiously at his elbow.

“My friends must have taken my valise after all,” he began, but d’Artagnan interrupted him.

“What about your window?” he asked, eyeing Athos shrewdly. “I’m sure a thief could carry a valise such as yours out of window.”

“Of course.” Athos turned to the attendant. “Do you have tapes covering the outside area?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

Those tapes were even emptier than the last. Finally they reached the end, without one sighting of Athos dropping down from his window in order to murder a man.

D’Artagnan, showing an acute understanding of the situation, pressed some bills into the attendant’s hand and murmured their thanks. Athos left the small security room and was followed quickly by d’Artagnan.

“I owe you an apology,” said d’Artagnan. Athos shrugged. “I do,” d’Artagnan insisted. “Please let me make it up to you.”

“All will be forgiven,” said Athos, “if you can find me some coffee.”

* * * * *

“It’s on the house,” said d’Artagnan as he set the two cups on what he now thought of as Athos’ table. Only Émile was in the café, baking that day’s pastries in the back, but they had only given d’Artagnan a raised eyebrow when they saw Athos.

It was strange, to think that only yesterday he had been planning how to pry a name out of his mystery man, and that now he was sitting down to coffee with him; and that both of those things paled in relation to everything else.

If only it had happened another way.

He imagined that he could still feel Papa’s blood sticking to his legs. Surely he didn’t have any on his face -- it would explain why Athos kept staring at him, though.

“How did you find me?” Athos asked. The sun was creeping over the horizon, turning the sky yellow and highlighting the unshaven scruff on Athos’ cheeks. The light dipped into the shadows under his eyes and turned his eyes to sea glass.

D’Artagnan tore his eyes away before Athos realized he was staring.

“The card,” he said. “It says you’re a police consultant. I know there’s a conference here every year, so I called the front desk and pretended I was your colleague.” He shrugged. “They gave me your phone extension, and those are ordered by room number. It wasn’t hard to find your room.”

Athos raised an eyebrow. “Impressive.”

D’Artagnan dredged up a tired half-smile. “I don’t think my professors would say so.”

Athos frowned. “Professors.”

“I’m sure they dock points for stealing evidence and confronting a suspect without backup. They'd retroactively flunk me if they knew.” D’Artagnan caught the implication of Athos’ statement a moment later. “Oh, I just finished my last year of school.” At any other time he might’ve made a sly joke about his age and how Athos needn’t worry, he was legal; but now it seemed like too much effort. “I'm going to Mont d'Or next month. I work here in the summers, to pay for school and to keep Papa…”

D’Artagnan choked on the words.

\-- nearly stumbling over Papa, like he was a fallen log. Dropping to his knees and feeling the blood, so warm and liquid --

“He…” D’Artagnan realized his hands were shaking. His head felt heavy, his eyes gritty. He was suddenly aware of how tired he was. “He… he’s really dead, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Athos quietly.

“I’m sorry,” said d’Artagnan. “It’s just.” He put his face in his hands. “I’ll have to call my sisters. And arrange for a funeral. And get the bo -- the body back from the police. I have to tell everyone.”

He thought of the countless phone calls he’d have to make by himself, in the kitchen he’d so recently shared with Papa. Sitting at the table with two chairs, in front of the stove with Papa’s breakfast still stuck to the pan on top.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” said Athos. It should have sounded like a line from d’Artagnan’s textbook, but in Athos’ voice it was weighted with sympathy.

D’Artagnan pressed his fingers into his eyes and held them there, then dropped his hands. “Thank you.”

He smiled crookedly at Athos, and Athos smiled back; a small twist of the lips, but a smile nonetheless. D’Artagnan felt something in his chest warm, like a light that had been doused was rekindled.

“Tell me about your father,” Athos said. As if he saw the bloody images that passed before d’Artagnan’s eyes, he added, “As you knew him. Tell me of the man you lost.”

Athos looked so steady, sitting in d’Artagnan’s hometown café with the coffee d’Artagnan had brewed in front of him. Even just looking at him made d’Artagnan feel more like himself.

“He keeps… He kept horses. He always said his mother wouldn’t let him near horses when he was small, and when he inherited the farm he bought six horses first thing. They were too much for him all at once. He tried to sell one to the Picaud farm across town. A beautiful piebald mare. The next morning, the mare was eating the flowers under Papa’s bedroom window…”

* * * * *  

An hour later, Athos was still enraptured.

When d’Artagnan spoke of his father, the obvious love he held for him lit his eyes and quirked the corners of his mouth. He had dear memories of his father, and it showed.

But beyond that, Athos was fascinated by the way d’Artagnan held himself: like a coiled spring, held tightly by internal forces. Athos had seen firsthand how that pressure could erupt. He wondered if d’Artagnan always looked like this; like a prowling animal held together by a reminder of humanity.

He wondered if d’Artagnan ever found other ways to release that pressure --

He wrenched his attention back to what d’Artagnan was saying.

“He was a huge Star Trek fan,” d’Artagnan said, laughing. “Lisabeth -- my sister -- she teases him about it, says that he’s a vintage nerd. But she’s as much of a fan as he is. He said that becoming a lawyer was like being part of the Borg Collective -- you know, assimilating…”

He stopped, staring unseeingly at his half-eaten croissant. Athos leaned forward, watching d’Artagnan intently. It seemed his hunch was paying off.

“Papa said that about the man who came to the farm,” d’Artagnan said, slowly at first, and then rushing to get it all out; “he said he wouldn’t sell the farm, wouldn’t assimilate, I thought he was exaggerating but then he said someone was out in the field last week, looking around with flashlights.” D’Artagnan looked at Athos directly. “He wanted to buy our farm. Someone’s been looking around at all the properties around town, everyone’s been complaining about it. I have to tell the police.”

He was half out of his seat when the light in his eyes dimmed. “Do you think this is right?” he asked Athos. “Do you think it’s too much conjecture?”

“Do you ask as the son of a murdered man, or as a detective?” asked Athos, leaning back in his seat.

“I ask as the man who accosted you because I found your card in the grass,” said d’Artagnan, some of his usual humor returning.

Athos shook his head. “Going to the police is different. Smarter.”

“Message received,” d’Artagnan said wryly. “Listen, I’ve got to go, but -- thank you, Athos.” Athos tried to pretend he didn’t feel a thrill at hearing d’Artagnan say his name.

D’Artagnan held out his hand and Athos shook it. There was no denying the jolt he felt then.

D’Artagnan looked flushed with discovery, on the verge of dashing away. Athos cursed his dormant attraction for choosing this week in particular to awaken. He cursed his inability to say the right words. He cursed his godawful timing. Most of all, he cursed his own cowardice for dropping d’Artagnan’s hand and retreating behind his now-cold cup of coffee.

“Good luck,” he said.

D’Artagnan flashed a smile. “Thanks.”

And then he was shouldering through the first wave of tired lawmen and -women coming in through the door, and he was gone.

Athos came to the café the next morning, but d’Artagnan wasn’t there. The barista named Émile informed him that d’Artagnan was on sick leave, but that Athos could leave a message, if he wanted.

Athos shook his head and ordered his coffee to go.

He left for Paris that afternoon.

* * * * * 

“How was the trip?” Porthos asked when Athos sat down at his desk on Monday.

“Fine,” said Athos. He shuffled the papers on his desk.

“ _My_ trip was very nice, thank you,” said Aramis, coming out of the kitchenette with two cups of coffee.

“Yeah?” said Porthos. “How was -- what’s her name? Maria?”

“Maria is, sadly, _affianced_. Adéle, on the other hand, is very much single…”

Athos let the customary banter wash over him. Aramis and Porthos were a facet of his life: constant and necessary. As familiar to him as his own heartbeat.

But something about the office this morning bothered him. Something was missing from the rhythm of his life.

A cup of coffee appeared on Athos’ desk. He looked up to thank d’Artagnan, and found Aramis looking back at him.

Athos felt the smile that had been curling up his lips drop away. He took a hasty sip of the coffee to hide it. The coffee was abysmal; nothing compared to d’Artagn… the café’s coffee.

Aramis was still staring at him.

Athos set the coffee down and cleared his throat. “What’s on the schedule?”

“No, hold on,” said Aramis. “You look different. You look… relaxed.”

“Perhaps a week among actual adults relieved my stress,” Athos sniped.

“That decides it,” said Porthos, yawning hugely. “You’re going to that thing every year.”

Aramis’ gaze fall away from Athos. “That’s right. No excuses now.” He grinned at Porthos, his eyes crinkling in that way they never did for anyone else.

Athos rolled his eyes and got up to fetch his hat. If there was no one with decent coffee here, he might as well keep himself busy.

* * * * *  

But try as Athos might, he couldn’t shake d’Artagnan out of his brain.

The morning light woke him to thoughts of ambling down to the café before he remembered that he was back in Paris, and that the café was half a country away.

Once he cracked a joke about the Borg, completely forgetting that d’Artagnan wasn’t there to hear it. He looked up to see Porthos looking puzzled and Aramis looking rather like he was having a heart attack.

Worst yet, Athos sometimes woke from half-daydreams in his car or in Captain Treville’s office: of pressing d’Artagnan’s body to the wall, his fingers caressing the soft skin of d’Artagnan’s wrist. Or d’Artagnan straddling Athos, his hair falling over his shoulders as he bent down to Athos’ face.

Or d’Artagnan simply smiling at Athos, cheeky and familiar. That image hit him right before he fell asleep one night, and he spent a full hour trying to get back to sleep while his brain replayed the smile over and over.

It was ridiculous. There was no reason for his subconscious to cling to d’Artagnan. No reason for Athos to have latched on to the man so quickly and so tightly.

(No reason, whispered his traitorous brain, except shared interests, like minds, and those beautiful dark eyes.)

Flecked with gold; he remembered.

The lingering thoughts haunted Athos for days on end, but he simply couldn’t bring himself to do anything about them.

Yes, d’Artagnan was a beautiful, charismatic young man. But he was too young. Twenty-two, perhaps. Twenty-three at the most. And Athos was too old; too used-up. Too broken.

So he did his best to move on. It was for the best.

All those efforts were wasted when, a week after returning to Paris, Athos found a new email in his inbox.

 

Hi Athos,

I hope you don’t mind me emailing, but I still have your card and I wanted to thank you again. Papa’s case is closed. They arrested his killer yesterday going off the lead you helped me find. Yes, I realized what you were doing. Sorry you had to stand all my rambling up to that point.

Is it alright if I stay in touch with you? I’m going to training in a month and it would help if I knew someone in law enforcement.

d’Artagnan

 

Athos opened and closed a reply email three times before he managed to write an email to his satisfaction.

 

~~Dear D’Artagnan,~~

****~~That would please me greatly. Are you going to be in Paris any time soon?~~

~~D’Artagnan,~~

****~~Of course you can stay in touch. Here is my cell phone number and mail address and fax~~

~~D’Artagnan,~~

****~~You were the one who figured it out. Even if you shouted at me it’s okay because I got to push you against a wall~~

D’Artagnan,

I’m glad to hear your father’s case is closed. You weren’t a chore to listen to. Email me any time.

Athos

Musketeers Agency

_Phone: xxx-xx-xx-xx_

_email: mtathos@musketeers.com_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The café does not sell cupcakes. They tried for a while but d'Artagnan ate every single one.
> 
> Special shout-out to traut for being wonderful and to thefrottagecottage for prompting me :3


	2. 'Til I Saw Your Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by the Bleachers' ["I Wanna Get Better."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8twpQTna_9w)

**To:** mtathos@musketeers.com  

From: Art1008@gmail.com

August 30, 1:16 am

Hi Athos

I'm sorry for writing so late. It's one of the nights when I can't stop thinking about Papa. It happened so suddenly. Everybody coming for the funeral and then leaving all at once, like the tide rushing in and then out. The house is so empty and quiet again. My sister lives in town but it wasn't the same. I'm glad I was leaving for the academy soon anyway. Although it takes me farther from you.

I saw Papa’s killer for the last time yesterday. He ended up taking the plea bargain and he’s going to jail. When the judge read the orders he looked so small and pale in his jumpsuit. None of the desperation that made him murder Papa to cover his tracks. I was glad to see him so small but it made me sad too.

In a way I’m glad he’s taking the deal because it means he gave up information on the company that hired him to snoop around our farm. Apparently our town has iron beneath it and they wanted to mine it. We’re rich, eh?

My sister Marion says the funny thing is that Papa would have, well he would’ve died before selling the farm to them. My other sister Lisabeth is a lawyer and she’s working with the family lawyer to sue the company. I hope we bleed them dry so they don’t have enough money to ever hire anyone else to snoop on any other farms. As Marion says, we’re going for the throat.

d’Artagnan

**  
**

**To:** Art1008@gmail.com

From: mtathos@musketeers.com

August 30, 1:35 am

D’Artagnan,

I understand those nights. As you can see, I don’t sleep well either.

I lost my brother years ago. Thomas. He and I were always at each other’s throats. He was arrogant. He thought me foolish. But he loved me and he always protected me, even from silly things. He couldn't protect me in the end. On nights like this I can't sleep for wondering if I did something wrong, if I led him to his death.

I saw his murderer too, looking small and pale in our interrogation room. I understand how one person can hold both hate and pity in their hearts for their enemy. But Thomas never received justice. With all my heart, I am glad that you have yours.

Athos

**  
**

**To:** mtathos@musketeers.com

From: Art1008@gmail.com

August 31, 2:34 pm

That's exactly it. The wondering. What if I’d followed Papa out to the barn sooner? Would Papa be alive?

But how can one person lead another to their death? Isn't the life of a single person only theirs, and isn't it their choice to lead or follow?

Lisabeth says the questions drive her mad, so she doesn’t think about them. She’s tearing into the lawsuit, though, and I don’t have anything to distract myself with. I feel useless.

Tomorrow I pack for the academy. Hopefully I’ll be too busy there to be sad.

d’Artagnan

**  
**

**To:** Art1008@gmail.com

From: mtathos@musketeers.com

September 1, 9:14 am

D’Artagnan,

In my experience, a person can never be too busy to grieve. However, the academy will certainly keep you busy. When I was there we had an instructor who delighted in making us run ten miles every morning before dawn. For your sake, I hope he’s since retired.

I must confess: your thought that each person is ultimately responsible for only their own life helped me settle some of my old grief about Thomas. There were some things about his death that I could have changed, as I know from many sleepless nights. But now as I remember from a new perspective I realize that many things about his death I could not have controlled. Thomas never listened to me well. And the hand that killed him was never controlled by me.

I think you are the first person I’ve spoken to about Thomas in years. It’s easier to think of him when I’m sharing his memory with you.

Athos

**  
**

**To:** mtathos@musketeers.com

From: Art1008@gmail.com

September 2, 7:59 am

I’m on the platform waiting for the train to take me to the academy. There’s a little girl who keeps looking over at me. She must be distracted by my rugged good looks, yeah?

I’m going to miss home, but I’m glad to leave the house. Have you ever felt like a place is suddenly different, even though everything looks the same? I never realized how much space Papa took up.

The little girl just came over to offer me a hair bow. She thought my hair was pretty. Maybe I should start wearing bows? It was polka-dot, though, which didn’t go with my outfit.

Anyway, the train is here. I hope you’re enjoying a lazy morning in Paris. I’m sorry to be moving even farther away from you.

d’Artagnan

Sent from my iPhone

**  
**

**To:** Art1008@gmail.com

From: mtathos@musketeers.com

September 2, 8:14 am

I think you would look very pretty with a bow. I’m sorry you’re moving away as well.

Yes, I know what you mean. I moved after Thomas was killed; the house seemed too cold afterward.

I’m sorry to say it isn’t a lazy morning. Porthos has insisted that we drive out to a flea market together. He acquires new hobbies frequently, and apparently his latest is collecting antique bookmarks.

Athos

**  
**

**To:** mtathos@musketeers.com

From: Art1008@gmail.com

September 5, 11:30 am

Don’t be too sorry for me; I’m glad to be at the academy! It’s the next step to being a detective. Ever since Papa died I’ve felt that being a cop is the most important thing I can do. This way I can help others from being hurt. It’s keeping me very busy, though. Sorry in advance if I don’t reply right away!

If you go to the flea market again, keep an eye out for old comic books. Flea markets are the best place to find them. There’s a big flea market near home. My sisters and I used to spend hours finding the most unusual trinkets.

Marion tells me that the farm is doing well. She had to sell the horses, but they all went to good homes. You must think I’m a country bumpkin for talking about the farm so much. It was always important to Papa. Now that he’s gone I love it as I loved him.

d’Artagnan

 

**To:** Art1008@gmail.com

From: mtathos@musketeers.com

September 5, 8:14 pm

What kind of comics do you like? Maybe I can find some.

I hope you’re enjoying the academy. I only have memories of trying to stay awake during extensive lectures.

There is a path beginning behind the old garages behind the school. It leads to a small pond. It is a good place to be alone if one wishes.

I don’t think you’re a bumpkin. Growing up on a farm has undoubtedly given you many valuable life skills. In our line of work, any kind of information can be useful. And riding horses is a sport that helps with flexibility and poise.

Athos

**  
**

**To:** mtathos@musketeers.com

From: Art1008@gmail.com

September 7, 11:30 am

There’s an instructor here we’ve started calling l’Inspecteur because he keeps going on about when he worked in the “Good old days” when everyone was proper and criminals were hung instead of given parole. He’s big, grizzled, and only speaks in shouts. Two men already have had wipe his spittle off their faces. I talked to them later and they said they saw their deaths mirrored in l’Inspecteur’s eyes as he approached.

Thanks for the tip about the pond. Like you said, it’s a nice place to be alone. I don’t get reception down there, though, and I’d rather be writing to you while by myself than truly alone. So I’m lying in my bunk right now.

You could say that riding is my specialty.

d’Artagnan

**  
**

**To:** Art1008@gmail.com

From: mtathos@musketeers.com

September 8, 8:14 am

L’Inspecteur sounds familiar. I think he might have been teaching when I was there. If so, he must be a fixture.

How long have you been riding? I tried for a few years in a summer camp when I was in my teens. Someone told me I shouldn’t waste my time on it, but I’d like to try again…

Athos

**  
**

**To:** mtathos@musketeers.com

From: Art1008@gmail.com

September 9, 4:26 pm

I forgot to answer your question about comics: I like the x-men, but anything really. Don’t feel that you actually have to buy anything!

I’ve been riding for a few years, on and off. I tried it once and liked it very much. Luckily I’ve met a lot of people willing to give me rides.

Oh, I supposed you mean horses! I’ve been riding them since childhood.

**  
**

**To:** Art1008@gmail.com

From: mtathos@musketeers.com

September 9, 6:02 pm

I’m not sure I understand. What would you ride other than hors

**  
**

**To:** Art1008@gmail.com

From: mtathos@musketeers.com

September 9, 6:03 pm

I didn’t mean to send that.

**  
**

**To:** Art1008@gmail.com

From: mtathos@musketeers.com

September 9, 6:05 pm

Riding HORSES. I didn’t mean it that way. At all.

**  
**

**To:** mtathos@musketeers.com

From: Art1008@gmail.com

September 9, 6:09 pm

What was it you said? Flexibility and strength?

**  
**

**To:** Art1008@gmail.com

From: mtathos@musketeers.com

September 9, 6:11 pm

Flexibility and _poise_. And not that kind of riding.

**  
**

**To:** mtathos@musketeers.com

From: Art1008@gmail.com

September 9, 6:13 pm

;D

Answer your phone.

**  
**

**To:** Art1008@gmail.com

From: mtathos@musketeers.com

September 9, 6:14 pm

No.

**  
**

**To:** mtathos@musketeers.com

From: Art1008@gmail.com

September 9, 6:16 pm

Fine, then I’ll just leave a voicemail.

**  
**

**To:** Art1008@gmail.com

From: mtathos@musketeers.com

September 9, 6:20 pm

I gave you my phone number in good faith. You don’t actually have to call just to laugh at me.

* * * * *

“... So Aramis had to wait while the captain got his coffee, chatted about yesterday’s match, and checked the fridge for unlabeled food, until he left and Aramis could take the ferret out from behind his back.”

D’Artagnan laughed aloud, drawing some annoyed glances from the other trainees in the common area. “What did he do with it then?”

“He couldn’t carry it out past Treville’s office, could he? No, he kept it in his desk all day and tried to smuggle it out in a takeout box.”

“Did it work?”

“Of course not. Fried rice went everywhere and the ferret landed on Constance’s head.”

D’Artagnan giggled helplessly into the couch cushions.

A plastic Monopoly house hit him in the head. "Keep it down over there, won't you?" said Planchet irritably. “We don’t need your perfect relationship being rubbed in our faces.”

D’Artagnan covered the mouthpiece of his phone. “I’m sure you’d like something else rubbed your face,” he said with a leer. “Speaking of, where is Grimaud?”

Planchet scowled. “Going through another vow of silence in the dorms.”

“I’ve told you about Grimaud, haven’t I?” d’Artagnan said into the phone. “He’s the one who doesn’t speak and eats every sheet of paper put in front of him?”

Another plastic house hit d’Artagnan in the face. He ducked behind the arm of the couch.

“As most of police work is only complicated by paperwork,” said Athos, “I’m sure this young man will become quite an efficient officer.”

D’Artagnan laughed again and rolled off the couch to avoid the rain of projectiles. The other trainees, bored and listless, had decided to side with Planchet.

“I’ve got to go,” he said. “I’m being attacked.”

“Hold your ground,” said Athos dryly, and hung up.

D’Artagnan lay on his back and grinned at the ceiling. “I’m in love.”

Planchet appeared above him and, with no game tokens left to throw, dropped an armful of Monopoly money onto d’Artagnan’s face. “Stop. Talking. About. Your stupid. Perfect. Boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” d’Artagnan said primly. “Yet.”

* * * * *

**To** : mtathos@musketeers.com

From: Art1008@gmail.com

September 26, 3:30 am

Its very quiet here. I snuck out of bed and I’m wedged into a seat in the library. Youd think theyd change the upholstery on these since the 1700s right?

Its always so busy here sometimes i forget about what happened at home. i should’ve been given moretime to grieve. you know.? the night is when it comes back to me and i remember the emptiness of the house. i dont have nightmares but i can’t sleep. no one else understands. its isolating.

sorry if this ruins your day tomorrow wehn you read this.

Sent from my iPhone

**  
**

**To:** Art1008@gmail.com

From: mtathos@musketeers.com

September 26, 3:38 am

I’m not asleep. Call me.

Athos

* * * * *

**To:** d’Artagnan

September 28, 3:19 pm

Ridiculous. If the transporter beam could make a new Kirk with every use, then it would be an alien. Sentient, at least.

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

It could be a new life form! Alien! God! Alien god! A primeval Q!

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

Don’t talk to me of Next Generation.

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

U don’t like PatStew?!

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

The Q character is overdone. Too much deus ex machina.

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

Deus ex starship?

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

Well, Troi, Geordi and Worf make a decent enough Chorus.

* * * * *

**From:** d’Artagnan

October 1, 2:43 pm

L’Inspecteur is at it again

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

Spittle?

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

Check

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

Froth?

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

Check

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

Raging lectures about how the law is absolute?

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

CHECK. I wish u were here so I could show u my impression

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

I’d rather stay in Paris. The spittle can’t reach me here.

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

Don’t be so sure lol

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

Do you have Skype?

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

The videocall software? No.

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

Do you want to? I can tell you how to install it

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

For my computer?

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

Computer or phone. It’s easy

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

So I can see you?

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

Yeah.

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

Okay. Call me tonight and help me install it.

* * * * *

D’Artagnan was lying on his bed, hands propping up his chin, gazing at Athos. Unfortunately, he was also in 2-D.

Athos tilted his screen back and expanded the Skype window to full screen. “You look…” charged, ready for a fight. Coiled tight in the way Athos remembered from the cafe. “...Tense.”

D’Artagnan sighed. “I got in trouble with l’Inspecteur today.”

“Haven’t we established that he’s a raging maniac?”

“With a hard-on for justice,” d’Artagnan grimaced. “He was giving us a lecture on proper arrest and he said that all criminals – that’s the word he said, criminals – had to be put down on the ground and handcuffed. So I asked him, what about pregnant women? What if the perp has a broken leg? He went into a rage about how I was mocking him and how the law is absolute and how if I don’t understand that then I shouldn’t become a police officer. It was just a dumb question.” D’Artagnan looked glum. The circles under his eyes, dark from stress and lasting grief, were more prominent tonight.

“He’s wrong,” Athos said instantly. “You are asking the right questions.”

“You think so?”

“Of course.”

“It’s just, he was talking about criminals like once they do something bad, they’re not people anymore. And I couldn’t stop thinking about the man who killed Papa. I saw him once before I left for the academy. He looked so scared. He didn’t become less of a person because he took away someone close to me.”

Athos was quiet for a moment. “No,” he said at last. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t happen that way.”

D’Artagnan shifted and the screen froze for a second. Static “--tunately?”

“Unfortunately,” Athos confirmed. “Because it would be harder to hate them if they were inhuman.”

“But then they wouldn’t be able to change.”

“Not everyone wants --”

“The chance -- sorry, you go ahead.”

“No, it’s fine.”

D’Artagnan hesitated, waiting for the video lag in case Athos spoke. When he was silent, d’Artagnan said, “I think the chance to change is in all of us. It’s only that a lot of people never get the opportunity. Or if they do, they don’t know how to go around doing it. What were you going to say?”

“Not everyone wants to change,” Athos said shortly. His mind was ticking over into dangerous category. Until now he’d been applying his words to Milady, and how she had torn his life apart while making him love her so desperately. She was as human as anything; greedy, selfish, and vain.

But d’Artagnan’s words seemed to apply to Athos. _The chance to change is in all of us… they don’t know how_.

D’Artagnan shrugged and the video pixelated, then settled. “That’s true. Some people are stuck in their ways. But change is inevitable, so why not make yourself better instead of falling into the same patterns again? Anyway, l’Inspecteur said that I have to run laps of the school as punishment. Apparently he’s a big believer in physical exertion as punishment.”

“I didn’t think that would be an issue for you,” said Athos. “Aren’t you a fan of physical exertion?”

D’Artagnan did a double-take at the camera, and then buried his face in his arms. Athos could hear him laughing into the bedspread.

“Perhaps you can ask if l’Inspecteur has anything for you to ride,” Athos continued, keeping his voice even. D’Artagnan’s shoulders shook harder. “I think you mentioned you love it.”

D’Artagnan finally lifted his head and wiped his eyes. “I didn’t mean it like _that_.”

* * * * *

“It’s good to see you again, Athos,” said Jessica. “We haven’t seen each other since…” She glanced at the papers on her lap, cut herself off delicately, and said, “for quite some time. And I understand that you haven’t seen any other therapists since we last spoke.”

“No.”

“Well, it’s a pleasant surprise,” she said. “What brings you here?”

Athos shifted uncomfortably on the guest chair. After Milady’s arrest, he had been sent to this tidy office on Captain Treville’s order. Jessica had pulled the bits of rage and shame out of him like shards of glass; holding them up to the light for him to see while he bled out on her suede chair.

He’d stopped coming a week before the trial; a month before he quit the precinct. And now he was back again for, more or less, the same reason as before.

“I’ve met someone,” he said.

“Is this person so awful that they drove you back to my office?” Jessica teased, but not without a hint of worry.

“No. They’re… he’s not terrible. He’s the opposite.”

“Is he a romantic interest for you?”

“Yes.”

“Sexual interest?”

Athos nodded. They had only briefly touched on Athos’ bisexuality in the wake of Milady’s arrest, but it been enough for Athos to realize that Milady’s dismissal of his sexuality had been yet another way that she had kept him under her thumb.

However, Jessica didn't revisit that topic. “Athos, coming back to therapy is a big step, a good one. In your case, it’s also very reliant on this other person. You know that therapy isn’t effective unless you’re really doing it for yourself, not others.”

“I am.” Athos met her gaze with his own cool stare. He wasn’t going to let on that he was freaking the fuck out. He knew what he wanted to do, and for that he needed her help. “I’m not unaware of my failings. I drink too much. I don’t trust easily. I don’t go out. My friends have to invent hobbies and arrange bowling nights just so I'll get out of my apartment." Out of his own mind.

“Self-awareness is important,” allowed Jessica, “but so is self-care. If you can care for the person you are now, then you can better change yourself in the future.”

That was crap. Why should he care for the person he was now? He was lonely and miserable, but for d’Artagnan.

“I know that I need to change,” he sidestepped. “I’ve known it for a while. Now I have a reason to.”

“Do you feel that you need to change for him?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“He makes everything better. He makes me better just by being around me. And I want to be better for him. He deserves that.”

Jessica folded her hands in her lap. “What do _you_ deserve, Athos?”

He was at a loss. He tried to remember one of the self-affirming phrases Jessica had spouted in their sessions so long ago.

“I deserve to change,” he said. “I deserve to be better.”

Jessica held his gaze for a moment longer before looking away. She reached for a pamphlet on her desk. "I'll give you the information of the nearest AA and schedule you for another appointment next week…"

* * * * *

Athos’ phone buzzed. Porthos looked up briefly from his tabloid. “Word from Aramis?”

“Newsfeed update,” said Athos. Porthos sighed and turned back to his intense reading of the latest Kardashian troubles.

Athos was glad for Porthos’ distraction, because he could never quite keep a smile off his face when d’Artagnan texted him.

 

**From:** d’Artagnan

October 23, 11:18 am

L’Inspecteur is trying to convince us that all modern police should all wear swords as part of uniform

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

You would look splendid, I’m sure.

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

At least I’d have an advantage w a sword. I think some of my classmates would do more damage to themselves

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

Do you fence?

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

Used to, was captain of my team in secondary school

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

I fenced too. Which weapon?

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

Épée. You??

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

Same. I still have my old equipment too. I always thought I’d take it up again.

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

You could try a phrase with me ;)

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

I’m sure I could land first hit.

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

Not if I parry. [Medium to forte](http://www.ii.uib.no/~arild/fencing/Images/drawings/blade.gif)

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

I prefer the tierce parry. There’s more wrist action.

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

Don’t discount my prises de fer. I hold two foils well

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

As long as it’s a private session; I don’t want a referee there

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

As long as we’re plugged in I’m sure it counts

 

“What are you smiling about?” Porthos asked.

Athos slid his phone under the table. “Nothing. Landslide in Spain.” At Porthos’ disbelieving look, he added, “A dog saved a whole family. Very happy.”

“I always knew dogs were better than people,” said Porthos. “Here, want to read about Lindsay Lohan driving a car into the Louvre Pyramid?”

* * * * *

Athos was unpacking containers of leftovers, courtesy of Constance, when his phone buzzed.

“What do you think of the limits of the law?” d’Artagnan asked without preamble. “I got in trouble again today and I need someone to back me up.”

“Were you backtalking again?”

“He’s just so severe,” d’Artagnan cried. “It’s so black-and-white with him. What if the law doesn’t work the way it should?”

“Then it was written wrong.”

“But I’m not going to school to become a lawyer, I’m here to learn how to carry out the laws! But what about the people the laws don’t protect, how do I help them?” Athos could practically hear the hair being ripped from d’Artagnan’s head.

He put the last of the Tupperware away and leaned against his kitchen counter. “One of the reasons we founded the agency was to help those whom we couldn’t help when we were employed by the state. There was too much red tape in being a police officer. The Musketeers have more freedom.”

“As long as you’re backed by the state,” d’Artagnan added. Athos had vented a few times about the hoops they had to jump through to be registered as official consultants.

“Yes. But we still have more leeway. Captain Treville helps us by looking the other way sometimes. In fact, we once investigated a man who worked in the Immigrations office. Some of the people he approved for immigration into the country had gone missing. It turned out that he was selling them to government officials. Once we found it out, the officials gave up the man and we took care of him.”

“You made sure that he disappeared,” d’Artagnan guessed.

“We didn’t commit any crime,” said Athos. “We merely made sure that he boarded a plane that held the victims of his side business. Captain Treville was very agreeable about putting a clean version in the official report.”

D’Artagnan was silent for a moment, and then he said, “Emile Bonnaire.”

Athos startled. “Yes. How did you know?”

“You said his name when we, um, met. In your hotel room. You thought I was his son. I looked up the name later and found a mention in the paper.”

“I’m impressed,” said Athos. “We kept it quiet. Any mention would have been very small.”

“Well, I had an interest in finding out anything about you.”

Athos found himself smiling. “I have an interest in keeping you interested.”

“Keep talking about your épée and I’ll stay _fascinated_.”

* * * * *

**To:** d’Artagnan

November 12, 7:17 pm

Luckily, Aramis rescued the cat and caught the jug before it could spill.

 

**From:** d’Artagnan

Lol 2 bad, I think Porthos would’ve liked a honey covered Aramis

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

He would have made sure to take many pictures. And possibly post them to our website.

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

I was thinking abt tastier endings for the 2 of them tbh

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

Do you think they’re dating?

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

…they’r not together??\

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

No

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

WHAT

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

THIS WHOLE TIME all these things you told me!!

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

They always arrive together!!! And that time w the lifeboat!!!

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

They’re really not go tether??

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

*Together

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

I promise you they’re not.

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

But now I can see why you’d think so.

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

I’m so mad

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

Get on Skype so I can tell u all the reasons they shld be 2gether

 

Athos glanced at his watch. Forty minutes until his AA meeting. He could log on and talk to d’Artagnan for twenty minutes before he had to leave, but that was too short for their regular talks. He could make an excuse and log off. He could tell d’Artagnan he was still in the office. He could skip the meeting.

He called d’Artagnan.

“Are you calling because you can’t wait to hear my list? I already have ten reasons.”

“I’d love to hear your list,” said Athos,”but I only have twenty minutes.”

“Are you still at the office? You didn’t have to call me.”

“No, I’m at home. I have to go to a meeting in forty minutes.”

D’Artagnan whistled. “Your clients keep wacky hours.”

Athos braced himself. “It’s not for a client. It’s an AA meeting.”

“Oh,” said d’Artagnan. “How long have you been attending?”

“My ex-wife killed my brother and tried to frame me for it,” Athos blurted. Oh, that was not what he had meant to say at all.

He barrelled on before he could make it any worse. “I started drinking after that and I never really had a reason to stop. Then I met you and I had a reason.”

No, that was definitely making it worse.

“I’m honored,” said d’Artagnan after the most agonizing moment of Athos’ life. “But… Athos, I don’t mean to be dismissive, or reject you in any way, but shouldn’t you be going to AA for yourself, not me?”

Athos sighed. “That’s what my therapist said.”

“She would know, right?” d’Artagnan said, an awkward joking edge in his voice.

“I told her that I’m doing this for you,” said Athos, “because it’s true. You convinced me to start going to therapy again.”

“I… I did?”

Athos cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder, and hunched over on the sofa. “You said that everyone has the ability to change within them.”

“I was talking about criminals, though.”

“Isn't negligence the same as a crime? I’m guilty of that, at the least.”

“Athos, you’re not a criminal. You’re not even a bad person.” D’Artagnan’s voice was urgent and hot, bleeding emotion through the phone line. “You make me laugh all the time. You know so much about helping people because it’s what you've done all your life, and I can tell by the way you talk about your clients that you care for every person you come across. You love your friends, I can tell that too.”

His voice softened. “Athos, you deserve good things. Go to the meetings because you deserve the same care you give to everyone else, alright?”

Athos squeezed his eyes closed until the lump in his throat smoothed out. “Okay.”

“You can tell me about the meetings if you want to,” d’Artagnan offered. “I won’t be scared away.”

Athos checked the time. Thirty minutes until the meeting. He stood up and grabbed his keys and jacket.

“That sounds good,” he said. “Maybe tonight when I come back. For now, you can read me your list of reasons why Aramis and Porthos…”

“Yes! First of all, why didn't you ever tell me the story about them fencing in the storage closet was _not_ a euphemism?”

* * * * *

**To:** d’Artagnan

November 23, 2:52 pm

Constance is on the warpath today.

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

Did Porthos put her stapler in jello again?

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

Worse. Someone ate her lunch.

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

Yikes. Bad work etiquette

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

I think she’s going around smelling everyone’s breath.

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

What did she have?

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

Let me ask.

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

On second thought I think I need to leave

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

Did u eat her lunch?? i’m ashamed of u!!!!!

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

No; Aramis did. I need to get him out before he gets disemboweled

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

Tru, it wld be the only way constance could reclaim her lunch

* * * * *

“Dip the chicken into the oil mixture.” D’Artagnan paused as Athos dipped obediently. “And now the breadcrumbs. And now put it in the dish. Then you can do the others.”

Athos paused with a handful of raw chicken. “Can I layer them?”

“No, they have to bake evenly.”

“Okay.” Athos laid the rest of the chicken breasts in the baking dish. “Now I put it in the oven. Right?”

“Right. Did you preheat it?”

Athos hoped the low quality of the Skype video hid his quick glance at the oven. “Yes.”

“Bake it for thirty minutes, give or take.”

“Give or take?” What did that even mean? What if the dish burned? What if he gave himself food poisoning?

“You know, it might need a few more minutes.”

“How do I know?”

“You check the middle of the chicken and the juices. I’ll show -- I’ll explain it in half an hour.”

Athos was so eating takeout tomorrow. And he wasn’t telling d’Artagnan.

**  
**

* * * * *

**  
**

Athos snapped a picture of the slim post box he held in his hands and sent it to d’Artagnan.

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

December 6, 10:19 am

I’m sending you a surprise.

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

What is it?!

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

If I told you…

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

I’d still pretend not 2 kno

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

Sorry; you’ll have to wait 2-4 business days.

**  
**

He wouldn’t miss his worn copy of _Twenty-thousand Leagues Under the Sea_ , despite its rank as his most-read favorite. Knowing that d’Artagnan would hold it, caressing its fuzzy-edged pages and tracing the underlined words, was worth the empty space on his bookshelf.

His phone buzzed again.

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

You’re the only person I know who uses semicolons in texts; it’s adorable

Athos’ heart, predictably, fluttered wildly in his chest.

Two days later, d’Artagnan interrupted his own brainstorming for the tragedy that had befallen l’Inspecteur to make him so curmudgeonly.

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

December 8, 7:19 pm

His family was carried off by pigeons

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

His partner was murdered by a man in a yellow sweater and now he rages at everything touched by the light of the yellow sun

 

**From:** d’Artagnan

He fell into the sewers once and was traumatized by the sight of the mutated turtles with nunchucks who live there

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

You sent me a book!!!!

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

You sent me the book you were reading at the café

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

When we first met

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

Oh

**  
**

**To:** d’Artagnan

Is it okay?

**  
**

**From:** d’Artagnan

You’d better be on Skype in half an hour

 

Athos stood up. He sat down. He stood up and paced a bit, then sat down again.

Then he paced a bit more, and leaned over the computer again.

The ethernet cable was connected; the internet signal was strong; Skype was up and working.

D’Artagnan wasn’t there.

He’d fucked up. The book was an idiotic idea. Who wanted a battered, coffee-stained book from their texting-and-sometimes-Skype acquaintance?

He’d thought the action would speak louder than the words he couldn’t say. Words like, “You make me laugh when nobody else has for years,” or “The best part of my day is when I wake up to see a text from you,” or “I still think about that dimple that appears when you smile and the way you throw yourself into everything you love.”

Idiotic.

Athos checked his phone again, and saw nothing but the same texts. _Oh. You’d better be on Skype in half an hour._

_Oh_.

That didn’t bode well, did it?

Athos’ phone buzzed in his hand. D’Artagnan’s name flashed on the screen. He briefly considered ignoring it. It could only be bad news, right?

Instead, he answered. “Hello?”

“God, Athos, I’m so sorry,” d’Artagnan said in a rush. “I was waiting for the thirty minutes to be up, and I was doing work and I fell asleep. I’m logging onto Skype right now, okay? I’m sorry.”

Athos’ computer chimed. Athos clicked on the video icon.

D’Artagnan’s anxious, sleep-rumpled face filled the screen. His hair was tangled on the top of his head and there was a pillow crease crossing his right eye.

“I'm so sorry,” he said again. “I completely didn't mean to fall asleep.”

“It's alright,” Athos said quietly. He hung up the phone and sat in the computer chair. “What did you think of my present?”

D’Artagnan grinned. “Are you kidding me? I love it.”

Athos’ fragile heart cracked open. “Really?”

“Of course. It's the one you were reading when we first met.” He laughed. “I can't believe you remembered that.”

“Of course I remember.”

D’Artagnan’s expression softened. “Athos, I’ve been thinking…” Athos’ stomach swooped. “The academy takes a break for Christmas and I’m going home for a week. I… we could see each other. If you want.”

Athos suspected his heart was dribbling all over his shoes. “Yes. I’d like that very much.”

“And, I mean, if you visited me you could stay over.”

Athos’ heart decided it didn’t need that blood anyway, and redirected it to somewhere more interesting.

* * * * *

“'I have said that Captain Nemo wept while watching the waves; his grief was great. It was the second companion he had lost since our arrival on board'…”

His belly full of d’Artagnan’s cooking, warm from the fire, Athos curled his arms around d’Artagnan and listened to d’Artagnan read from Athos’ book. D’Artagnan sat in the vee of his legs, leaning back against Athos’ chest.

D’Artagnan leaned his head back into Athos without pausing in his reading. Athos obligingly tangled a hand in d’Artagnan’s hair and pressed his lips to the pulse point behind d’Artagnan’s ear. D’Artagnan’s voice hitched, but he kept reading. Athos kissed the shell of d’Artagnan’s ear, then the spot just below, and then down his neck -- one kiss; two; sucking lightly on the third.

He reached d’Artagnan’s collarbone and carefully applied teeth.

D’Artagnan finally set the book down. “You’re very distracting,” he said.

“Am I?”

D’Artagnan turned around and rose to his knees. “You know,” he said, running his fingers over Athos’ open shirt collar, “Captain Nemo reminds me of you.”

Athos tilted his head back. “A recluse who holds people prisoner on his submarine. Should I be insulted?”

The low flames in the fireplace cast d’Artagnan’s skin in bronze. His fingers danced under Athos’ collar. “That’s not Nemo. I’m talking about the man who helps all the poor and suffering people he can. Even when he’s locked himself away under the ocean.”

“I always thought of myself as Aronnax,” said Athos. “Isn’t that the idea? You’re supposed to feel frustrated by the mystery of Captain Nemo.”

He slid his hands up to d’Artagnan’s hips and brushed his thumb against the warm skin of d’Artagnan’s stomach. He could feel d’Artagnan swaying a little, tipsy from nothing but the warmth of the room and Athos’ own proximity. He felt a new-familiar thrill from the idea that he made d’Artagnan look this way: flushed and fond and excited.

“He’s not a mystery,” said d’Artagnan. “He just hasn’t had anyone to tell his story to in a long time. He’s not used to it yet. But the reader understands him eventually.”

He bent down and touched his forehead to Athos’. “Besides,” he said, a breath away from Athos’ lips, “I always thought he was the most handsome.”

Athos laughed and finally closed the distance between their lips.

* * * * *

“What do _you_ deserve, Athos?” Jessica had asked. In all his sessions with her, he hadn’t been able to answer.

Now, feeling d’Artagnan’s heartbeat under his fingertips, his skin under Athos’ lips, he found the right answer.

_Him_ , he thought. I deserve _him_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a therapist. Please do not take any of Jessica’s advice as medically or professionally sound. However, do try to love yourselves <3 
> 
> All épée jargon is from six years ago, buoyed by Wikipedia. If I'm off... let your imagination fill in the gaps. 
> 
> +1000 points if you can name l'Inspecteur. +500 if you can guess who Jessica's named after.


End file.
